


It's Friday I'm in love

by MidLifeLez



Series: Awed by her splendour [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, F/F, Kate Stewart Appreciation Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 18:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12710079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidLifeLez/pseuds/MidLifeLez
Summary: Or: five times Kate Stewart wasn’t home from work before dark, and one time she wasPosted as part of Kate Stewart Appreciation Week, 12-18 November 2018





	1. Chapter 1

It’s dark, pitch black, once Kate stops the engine. It’s almost always dark when she gets home, the end of a journey of headlights sweeping over hedgerows and tutting at _The World Tonight_ on Radio 4. But it _is_ home. Not the flat. Not a hotel room in Geneva. Not the sofa in her office at the Tower, which is just about long enough for her to stretch out on, as long as she doesn’t mind her toes hanging over the end. _Home_. Warm yellow light spills from the downstairs windows and there’s a picture postcard trail of smoke above the chimney. Kate sits in the driveway for a moment and scrolls through the notifications on her phone, keeping one ear open for the sounds of any other vehicles; this is, as Gordy had once put it, the arse-end of nowhere, and any traffic about at this hour is almost certainly up to no good.

 

“I’m home,” she calls out, kicking the front door shut behind her and slinging her keys onto the table. There’s no response except for the thump-thump-thump of Somerville’s tail against the radiator – “hello old girl,” Kate says, knuckling the top of the Labrador’s head – but there’s a light on in the kitchen and, if she’s not mistaken, the third movement of Beethoven’s cello sonata No.3 is playing. Kate has a weakness for piano but is less convinced of the beauty of strings than her wife; Beethoven has kept them both happy for years, even if Kate will scroll to more modern piano pieces when she has the house to herself. (“Oh god, you’re one of those people who embraced their post-divorce existence by developing a fondness for jazz, aren’t you?” Helene had joked, scrunching up her nose, on their fifth date. “It’s a good job I was already in love with you,” Kate would say, years later.) Hanging up her coat, Kate toes off her boots and stands in the hallway for a moment, letting the place envelope her again, cello and all.

 

Padding into the kitchen she finds Helene flicking through a recipe book, tea towel flung over her shoulder, seemingly unaware that she’s no longer alone.

 

“I could’ve been anyone,” Kate says, her voice low and gruff in Helene’s ear as she slides her hands over Helene’s hips and nudges their bodies together.

 

“That’s true,” Helene says through a grin, turning into Kate’s arms, “although I don’t think my other girlfriend drives a GT6.” The throaty growl of the engine on Kate’s 1971 Triumph echoing up the lane, rumbling like thunder through the silence of the Welsh hills, had given her away.

 

“You’ll pay for that,” Kate replies, pressing her face in to Helene’s neck so that it comes out as “yurghperfutht” and gives Helene goosebumps, to boot.

 

“Have you eaten?”

 

Kate sighs and steps back, rubbing the back of her own neck, which is stiff and achy from the drive. She glances at the clock, though she already knows it’s just about to hit half eleven.

 

“I’m sorry Len, I think I went through hunger and out the other side, somewhere around Telford.” She puts her fingers through Helene’s belt loops and focuses on them for a moment before looking up, biting her lip. “Will it keep until tomorrow?”

 

Helene tilts her head to the side in a gesture that says, ‘Do you think I’m stupid enough to cook anything that wouldn’t?’ She bats Kate’s shoulder and pulls her into another hug. “Want to help me make a lemon drizzle?”

 

Kate answers with a grimace, not because of the time – they’ve become accustomed to Fridays stretching well into the small hours – but because lemon drizzle is her least favourite; it means the fundraising group from the local church are visiting at some point this weekend. “They’re not stopping long,” Helene says, handing Kate an apron. “You know how much I rely on them for selling new work. And we can always make two, if you’re worried about them eating it all.”

 

“Oi!” squeaks Kate, wrapping the apron around her middle and pulling her hair back into a ponytail. “I’m not a _complete_ gannet, you know.” She pulls a look that (she thinks) makes her seem offended; she doesn’t realise that the way her face softens and her shoulders relax every Friday evening lasts until at least Sunday lunchtime, alien incursions permitting.

 

Helene hands down a bag of flour from the cupboard without turning around, still looking for some sugar. “Not a _complete_ gannet,” she mutters into the assorted baking goods.

 

*

 

It’s almost 3am when they slide under the covers. The cakes are on wire racks in the kitchen, which is spotlessly clean because Helene hates doing it the next morning. There are two glasses and the remains of a 17-year-old single malt sat in front of the fireplace in the living room, which is full of ashes because Kate hates cleaning it out when she could be curled up with her wife and a whisky. They both know she’ll do it before breakfast, so that she has an excuse to get out and see how the garden’s doing once the sun is up.

 

“Missed you,” Kate whispers, eyes closed as Helene sinks back into her embrace. And it’s true. She wouldn’t change her job, the world – the universe – she knows for anything; can’t imagine an alternative career that would test her to such a gratifying degree (and infuriate her, yes; and occasionally terrify her, she’ll admit). She tries not to let the novelty of the Tower wear off, approaching it on foot along with the day trippers whenever the dogs will allow. She gets to the lab to see what Osgood’s working on any chance that comes. She has just about enough to do with the Doctor, or his closest friends, to make it feel like a perk of the job but not so much that she tires of hearing the Tardis land. When she considers her domain, she’s jolly glad to call it that. But she wonders sometimes whether it would all feel worth it if she didn’t have this to retreat to. Whether any of it would seem to matter quite so much, without the woman she loves. “Len,” she breathes, kissing Helene’s temple but getting no response. “Lenny,” she whispers, her lips close enough to tickle Helene’s ear. Helene wriggles in her arms, rubbing her ear on her shoulder, and hums contentedly. “Missed you,” Kate says again, adding another kiss. “Love you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Kate’s sitting on the third step from the bottom when Len finds her; her boots are where they landed, her jacket is splayed haphazardly over the banister. The bulb has gone in the lamp in the hall, so there’s only the light from the porch to see by. Kate’s pushing her fingertips back and forth across her eyebrows, eyes tight shut, a long, seething breath escaping her lips.

 

“Still getting nowhere with the Sycoraxs delegation?” Helene sits down, bumping her shoulder playfully against Kate’s and squeezing her knee.

 

“Worse,” Kate huffs, rubbing her eyes.

 

“You didn’t tell me you were at Downing Street today?” Helene says, surprised. Kate is normally careful to let her wife know when she’s speaking to ministers, especially if it’s on a Friday, so that any breakables between the front door and the armchair by the fireplace can be cleared out of harm’s way. Kate’s only ever broken something once, and that was accidental – a small picture frame coming a cropper when she slammed the front door so hard the walls shook – but Len had teased her by calling her ‘Hulk’ for days afterwards.

 

“I’m going to strangle the Prime Minister with my scarf before too long. Do you get life or a CBE for that, these days?” She pauses for a moment, and Helene is glad to hear the humour returning to Kate’s voice, and see a hint of a smirk at her lips. “Reckon they’d let me serve my sentence at the Tower?”

 

“Are you home so late because of Whitehall bureaucracy, Kate Stewart, or because you’ve spent the evening filling the PM’s pockets with stones and dropping her in at Traitor’s Gate?”

 

Kate’s laugh turns into a moan as she looks at her watch. Almost 1am. That’s a record, even for this administration. She closes her eyes again, then shakes her head briskly from side to side, as if to remove all memory of the day. “Show me what you’re working on?” she says quietly. She can see paint under Helene’s fingernails, and in the lines of her knuckles, which Kate rubs with her thumb, a little moment of reconnection after a bruising week.

 

She’s been gone since late on Saturday, when the call had come in to say that a ship carrying two dozen Sycoraxs had been intercepted entering the earth’s atmosphere somewhere over the Indian Ocean. Almost a week of attempted discussion with three of them – four if you counted the one who only ever stood at the back looking especially livid – had yielded nothing but headaches. Even Osgood, who initially had been excited at the discovery that there were still some Sycoraxs left in the universe after all, had started to see the appeal of a more militaristic response. And then to cap it all off the PM’s office had demanded a meeting and Colonel Shindi (who could usually be pressed into a Whitehall visit) had been unavailable. 

 

Helene lifts their entwined hands to her lips and kisses Kate’s, ignoring the chewed nails, and says, “Come on then.”

 

The studio is at the back of the house, its modern lines and huge panes of glass in striking contrast to the stone brickwork of the original cottage. (To this day the local planning committee can’t remember how or why they agreed to it, though the paperwork is all there, complete with their signatures. A secret housewarming gift from McGillop.) There are canvasses leaned everywhere, spilling out of the racks that Len had knocked together when they had first built the extension and across walls; against the legs of a trestle table; piled precariously on top of a stool that hasn’t been sat on for at least three years. Kate has a habit of looking at all of them, even the ones she’s seen before; likes to let her gaze linger over the bold brush strokes and thick, raised oils.

 

Helene pulls her towards the far end of the room, where a large canvas sits on an easel at the centre of a forest of multi-coloured splodges and curled up, empty tubes of paint. On it, rendered in vivid impasto, is the copse at the end of the lane, just where the ground gives way to a stream; the green of the grass is cut through with purples and blues and the water carries a rainbow of colours along in thick wedges.

 

Kate thinks that no one else could capture this little patch of the world just so – could infuse it with such life and love. She wants to reach out and touch it, run her fingers over the twists and turns in the trees, but knows better. Helene can see Kate’s hands twitching and scoops them up with her own, drawing them closer together. “What do you think?” she asks, resting her head against Kate’s front. There isn’t really another opinion that Helene cares about. The show isn’t for weeks, and they know from experience that local buyers won’t go for a piece this big if it’s not in the muted palette of a Constable, or a Turner.

 

“I love it, Len,” says Kate, turning to look at her wife, her smile tired but genuine. She didn’t study art beyond O-level and is much happier painting a skirting board than a picture, but Len’s best work always leaves her a bit breathless on first viewing. (“Is this a line?” she had joked, the first time Helene had offered to show Kate her artwork. “Attic room, is it? Aye aye.” But she had been left pretty much speechless once she’d climbed up to the eaves and taken a look, the room filled with a series of beautiful crumple-faced babies created for a neonatal unit at a hospital in Bath.) “Can we keep it?”

 

“You’re just saying that because you know there isn’t a soul within a 50-mile radius who’ll want to buy it,” Helene says through a grin, holding up her finger to forestall any protest. “And you probably haven’t slept for more than a few hours since, what, Tuesday?” Kate pulls a face as if to deny any such thing, but Helene just looks at her: _I have got Osgood’s number, you know_.      

 

“I am bone tired,” Kate confesses, rubbing her eyes again before letting Helene lead them back into the house and up to bed. In a few moments she’ll nuzzle under Len’s chin and fall asleep with her wife’s arm around her shoulders, but first there are lights to switch off and stairs to thump up, lead-footed with fatigue. “But please can we keep it.”


	3. Chapter 3

THUD.

 

Helene lifts her head off the pillow and tries to tune in to the sounds coming from somewhere downstairs. She should be worried, she knows, but she’s almost certain that she knows that particular thump in the night. Has heard it at least half a dozen times.

 

“Sweet! Buggery! Jesus!”

 

Confirmation if it were needed that yes, Kate is hopping about downstairs, clutching her toes and cursing every piece of furniture in the house and giving the coffee table a particularly stern piece of her mind. Climbing out of bed and pulling on her dressing gown, she heads down.

 

“Stupidbloodytablebloodything _every_ bloodytimeyoudoit.” Kate’s muttering to herself without pausing for breath, frowning hard; she looks up in surprise and then apology when the light comes on and she sees Helene in the doorway.

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, still sounding more sorry for herself, truth be told. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

Helene looks at the clock. “It’s almost four in the morning, sweetheart.”

 

“I know, I know, that’s why I was trying to be quiet, until I was viciously attacked by this coffee table.” Kate points accusingly at the offending piece of furniture and tries an endearingly lopsided grin.

 

“Ah, well, you see, I’ve trained it to do that if anyone turns up and starts creeping about at this hour on a Thursday night. Couldn’t trust the dog to do it.” Len looks over to where Somerville is laying flat out on her bed, eyeing them both with mild disinterest, and chuckles, folding her arms and leaning against the door frame. “You do know it’s Thursday, Kate? I thought you weren’t due back from Switzerland until tomorrow afternoon.”

 

“Trying as three days in Geneva might be,” Kate says gruffly, still rubbing her foot, “I can usually still be relied upon to remember what day of the week it is.” There’s a pause as they both think back to Easter weekend in 2014, when a very groggy Kate had been returned home in a UNIT Land Rover by Sam Bishop; hugging Helene and announcing proudly “I’m 702!”, she had promptly fallen asleep at the bottom of the stairs and woken up two days later with no recollection of the events of the previous two weeks. Even thinking about it makes Kate’s back ache, and she rubs absentmindedly at her spine before locking eyes with Helene, who’s wearing a wry smile. “ _That_ doesn’t count.” As far as Sam knew, he’d driven Kate home, had a cup of tea, and then left without incident. She doesn’t like to use memory wipes on her field agents if she can help it, but Kate had been so mortified when Helene had told her what actually happened that she had followed Sam across two continents (buying her own tickets to save an embarrassing expenses claim) to administer the spray herself. “And technically it is Friday.”

 

Helene smiles and heads towards the kitchen to fill the kettle - hears Kate following her, doesn’t need to turn around to know Kate is throwing the coffee table one final, scolding look. “So, who should I thank for the extra day with my wife?” Len asks, dropping tea bags into two mugs and reaching for the biscuit tin. She tips it to show Kate the ginger nuts inside, smiles when Kate’s eyes widen gleefully at the sight. “You are home for the weekend now, I take it?” Her question isn’t a grumpy one, but this isn’t her first rodeo. You don’t marry Kate Lethbridge-Stewart without learning that science leads, and the universe calls. Or, more accurately, Osgood, or a colonel, or even the Doctor, calls.

 

“I am, you lucky thing,” Kate says, pushing her hands into her pockets and looking down at her feet – now safely inside a pair of slippers – so as to hide her broad grin. “And I’ve even put my out-of-office on.”

 

Helene spins round with her eyebrows raised comically high. “Your autoreplies are on?!” she jibes, walking over to the calendar and peering at it as if the print is so small. “Nope, not my birthday…” she runs her finger up and down the page theatrically, knowing that behind her, Kate’s pout is growing more and more pronounced. “Not our anniversary, either…”

 

“Oh, oh, I see, it’s like that, is it?” Kate laughs, wrapping her arms around Helene and tickling her lightly; Len squeals and writhes but doesn’t try too hard to escape Kate’s attentions. She has always been especially in love with this part of Kate: the fun, silly, childish part; the part that might so easily be worn down or scrubbed out entirely by her work but that remains stubbornly, gloriously, in place. She marvels, sometimes, at how this can be the case; it seems to her at times that each time UNIT is called upon to prevent catastrophe the organisation must deal with its own disaster, the body count higher each time. She knows it hurts Kate to write to each soldier’s family, though she’d never dream of asking anyone else to do it. So these moments, moments when it’s just her and her daft wife and nothing and no one else, are ones she is careful to treasure. Even when she knows the sun will soon be up, even with sleep in her eyes, even with tea stewing on the side. “Remind me”- Kate breaks off to plant warm lips on Helene’s shoulder, “not to”- she turns Helene around and nudges the collar of her pyjama top aside with her nose so that she can kiss her chest, still gently tickling her sides, “bother…” Whatever the rest of the sentence was going to be, it never makes it out of Kate’s mouth, which busies itself instead with kissing a trail down Len’s front.


	4. Chapter 4

“What is it, what’s happened?” Kate’s barely even through the door before she calls out. She looks around, sees two extra pairs of shoes under the table, a big blue anorak that can only belong to her eldest on a spare hook, a tie that’s almost definitely been discarded by her younger son on his way through. “What’s the matter?”

 

She had almost driven straight into the back of Gordy’s car, swinging onto the driveway expecting it to be empty, save for the old banger that Helene insisted on driving around in. (“It’s still perfectly serviceable,” she tells Kate whenever the topic of a new car comes up, “and it’s still newer than yours.” She says this knowing full well the effect it’ll have. “Darling,” Kate will say, “a 1998 Ford Ka is not a classic car.” And then she’ll frown her not-really-cross frown, and hug Helene and nuzzle into her hair, peppering it with kisses before grumping “and you know it” against her scalp.) Tonight it’s late September and only about half past nine, the sun just disappearing in an amethyst haze behind the hills; Kate had made good time, she’d thought. Had made it home almost in daylight, or dusk, at least. But apparently not early enough; something must have happened to bring Gordy all the way over here on a Friday night. Something he couldn’t tell her on the phone – she had pulled her phone out of her pocket to make sure, before striding up to the front door.

 

“What’s happened?” she asks again in a ragged voice, stepping into the living room and finding Len and the boys watching a travel documentary. Three heads – two with the distinctive Lethbridge-Stewart nose – turn to look at her. Taking in the slightly frantic look on Kate’s face, they all speak at once.

 

“You alright, Mum?”

 

“Darling, are you okay?” 

 

“Which planet produces creatures that can do _that_ to _you_?”

 

Kate looks from one to the other before closing her mouth for what feels like the first time in about 10 minutes and swallowing hard. “No I’m not, no, and _this planet_ you bloody idiots; what are you doing turning up unannounced? I thought something had happened!” She shrugs off her suit jacket and rolls her sleeves back, taking a seat in the armchair closest to the door. Somerville pushes her wet nose into Kate’s hand where it hangs over the side, buying herself a good chin rub. “Nothing has happened, has it?” Kate stares again at her sons, looking for clues.

 

Gordy, who’s sitting on the floor with his back against the sofa, always his preferred spot, pulls a face. “Can’t two loving sons visit their dear old mum” – he’s interrupted by Helene loudly clearing her throat – “dear, um, amazingly youthful mum, just because?”

 

Len and Kate share a look over the top of Gordy’s head. He doesn’t remember his dad when his parents were still together, and only saw his mum and his stepdad together for a few years, but knows he never saw them have conversations with their eyes the way Kate and Helene do. It’s barely a second or two but it’s all there: _glad you’re home, darling; thank you for feeding my boys; our boys; our boys; missed you; love you._ Oh, and: _I’m not buying this._

 

“How much do you need?”

 

Gordy looks at his brother and draws a hand to his chest in mock outrage; the pair of them turn hurt looks on their mother, who still has one eyebrow quizzically raised.

 

“Well if it’s not money or heartache – it’s not, is it?” Kate pauses to eye both of the young men for signs of a broken heart and smiles when she finds none, “If it’s not money and it’s not heartache, then I take it all back.” She turns her right sleeve, which has unfurled, back again. “Just call ahead next time, save your _dear old mum_ a heart attack, hmm?” She looks at each of them in turn, eyebrows raised slightly, and tucks her hair behind her ears. “Now, who wants to get thumped at cards?”

 

*

 

It’s about one in the morning when the boys head up to bed, interrupting their animated complaints about their mother’s competitiveness just long enough for a goodnight kiss. Helene gathers up the glasses from the table and takes them to the kitchen while Kate scoops up the cards and chips. When Len comes back, she finds Kate perched on the edge of the table shuffling the cards, deep in thought. “You OK?”

 

“Mmm? Oh, yeah,” Kate opens her arms, inviting her wife to lean in to her, and hums when she does. “Lovely to have them here again. It’s been a while.”

 

“They really gave you a scare, didn’t they?”

 

“It’s not rational, I know,” Kate says, shaking her head. “I can’t think why it spooked me so much.”

 

“Not going soft in your old age, are you?” Helene teases.

 

“Why is _everyone_ determined to make me feel ancient, today?”

 

Before Helene can turn on her most beaming placatory smile, they’re distracted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and Gordy appears in the doorway.

 

“Muu-um?” he says, sounding every bit the teenager and not at all a man in his late 20s. Kate looks at Len: _here it is_.

 

“Yes, my dearest darling boy?” There’s a pause as Gordy looks at Kate, then Len, then Kate again. Their wry smiles do not falter. Best just to get on with it, he decides.

 

“Can we borrow the car tomorrow?”

 

Kate glances between her wife and her eldest son, torn between a gloating feeling at having correctly predicted that, if they weren’t here with bad news or broken hearts, the boys were here because they wanted something, and a nagging feeling that this is going to end in a hefty bill from the garage. She digs Len gently in the ribs and looks to Gordy. “Is it safe to assume that you mean _my_ car?”


	5. Chapter 5

It’s midnight, and all Kate has heard for the past few hours is the rapid scraping and whining of the windscreen wipers as they attempt to fend off the relentless rain. The wind has been tugging at the sides of her car all the way home. Her fingers are ice cold. She tries to pull her jacket up over her head as she makes the dash towards the house, but only succeeds in letting the rain run down her forearms and into her shirt sleeves, where they are gathered at the elbow. She can see that the only light on is upstairs, but it’s still a relief to step inside and lean back against the closed front door, the warm, cosy atmosphere of the cottage a welcome balm on her cold skin. _Maybe I am getting old_ , she thinks, remembering how much she had loved a thunderstorm before Gordy was born; how she had thrilled at the boat being tossed up and down on water that seemed to boil, how she had waited at the window for the flashes of lightning to turn the world monochrome for an instant. The boat was rather more watertight than her car though, she reminds herself, and she hadn’t had over 200 miles to cover on increasingly waterlogged roads. Falling out of a plane in the middle of Missy’s cyberstorm probably hadn’t helped, either. She looks at a picture of the Brig, one of a clutch of portraits in the hallway, and smiles. _Thanks Dad._

 

She hangs her jacket on the doorknob so that it can drip onto the mat, wipes her feet and puts her boots by the radiator. “Len,” she calls up. “Le-e-en?” There’s no answer, but she can hear that the extractor fan is on, thinks Helene must be in the bath. She moves quickly into the kitchen, pours herself a glass of red, takes a long slurp from it, and heads upstairs.

 

“Only me,” she says softly as she pushes open the bathroom door. “Oh.” Kate struggles to hide her disappointment on finding that her wife is not, in fact, lying naked in a hot bath waiting for her to jump in, but is already in her bathrobe, a towel twisted into a turban on the top of her head, watching her reflection as she applies moisturiser.

 

“Hoping to catch me starkers, were we?” Helene jokes, holding Kate’s chin so that she can toy with her bottom lip, which is pulling a familiar pout. Kate ducks her head and does her best to look innocent, but yes, she absolutely was hoping that, and they both know it. Helene leans in for a long, lingering kiss before turning back to the mirror. “Sorry darling. I messaged Os about next weekend and she mentioned that it had been a late one; I wasn’t expecting you back yet. I _thought_ ” – she pauses for effect – “you’d be taking it easy in this weather.”

 

“I promise I was on my best behaviour,” Kate says, throwing a girl guide’s salute. She’s pretty sure _everyone_ runs a bit wide on the hairpin outside Berwyn, rainstorm or not.

 

“Alright, Jenson Button. Want me to run another bath?”

 

Kate runs her hands up and down Helene’s arms, her fingertips skimming the waffled material of her robe. (The first time Helene had ever stayed over at Kate’s flat, it was February - bitterly cold and snowy, even in London. They had tried to get up for breakfast and found it impossible to stay out from under the duvet for long, mostly because they couldn’t keep their hands off one another, but also because the heating hadn’t been on a timer and they could see their breath in Kate’s kitchen. Kate had wanted to give Helene something to wrap up in, but had only a short silk gown of her own – no good, in that weather – or the heavy dressing gown her ex had left behind; even on Kate (and even if the very thought of it hadn’t made Kate bristle), the sleeves were several inches too long. She had gone out later that day and bought two crisp white towelling robes in the same size. They had long since bitten the dust, but she still bought them matching white robes, even now.)

 

“Earth to Kate…” Helene is looking at her via the mirror, her toothbrush raised to her mouth. “Shall I run another bath?”

 

“Sorry,” Kate says, squeezing Helene’s shoulders and turning to look for her wine glass. “Miles away.” _Years away._ “No, don’t worry. I’ll have a quick shower.”

 

*

 

Kate Stewart has never really been a girly girl: never really was one for sleepovers (Mum probably wouldn’t have minded, but Kate rather liked that the house in Chichester mostly just had them in it), or makeovers (when she had met Jonathan he hadn’t cared two hoots about whether she wore make up or not; loved her unconventional side, at least to begin with). The penchant for kitten heels had come belatedly, in her 40s, when she’d lost weight and a lifetime of baggage; she likes the sound they make when they strike the floors in the Tower and she loves them for the way they lead UNIT’s foes to underestimate her. So it still surprises her sometimes how much she loves late nights such as this, the pair of them sat in front of the fire with warm skin and damp hair, the best part of a bottle of wine emptied into their glasses, Helene painting her toe nails and Kate trying to tidy up the fingernails she’s bitten ragged all week. It’s not a nervous thing – she could face down five different extra-terrestrial species before lunch and not work up a sweat, but with greater responsibility comes more bureaucracy, and doing paperwork makes her restless.

 

Eventually Len shuffles across the sofa and curls in to Kate, the room smelling of nail varnish and red wine and moisturiser and the silence interrupted occasionally by a log cracking in the grate, the lamplight occasionally obliterated by a white flash of lightning in the skies above. Kate teases strands of Len’s hair between her fingers; Helene runs her fingertips approvingly over the now-smooth nails of Kate’s other hand, and listens to the steady beat of Kate’s heart beneath her ear: _I’m home, I’m home, I’m home_ , it says.


	6. Chapter 6

Though she knows better, Kate can’t help but feel that the universe is smiling upon her, just a little bit: the weather, while hardly blistering, is definitely warm enough for shirtsleeves and sunglasses; she has managed to hitch a ride home with a section heading to Trawsfynydd for a weekend training exercise; she is definitely going to be in long before Helene, and long before Helene expects her. By the time she turns her key in the lock, she is all but whistling – the only reason she isn’t whistling, in fact, is that she’d have to wipe the big smile off her face first.

 

She heads straight upstairs, Somerville loping up after her, and takes off her jewellery; takes off her suit and starts a pile for the dry cleaners on the chair at her bedside. She practically groans aloud at the feeling of pulling on a well-worn pair of jeans and a soft flannel shirt.

 

“That’s better, isn’t it?” she asks her trusty steed, firmly patting the side of the dog’s belly. “That’s better.”

 

The dog wags her tail and pushes her weight against Kate, nuzzling her and panting happily. “In a minute,” Kate promises, straightening up and pulling her hair back with a tie.

 

“We have to put dinner on first, don’t we?” She closes her eyes at realising her mistake, the dog now lifting her front paws up off the floor in her excitement. “Not your dinn- oh, never mind.”

 

In the kitchen, she looks through the cupboards searching for the slow cooker – _why does it never go back in the same spot twice?_ she wonders, though she knows it’s probably because she was the last one to put it away, when the warmer weather came. Kate rarely cooks. In Geneva her evening meals are covered by expenses – in London, too, though she usually just picks up a salad and has it at her desk before packing up for the night. At home she gladly cedes to Helene’s love of cooking most of the time, makes up for it with finely honed dishwashing skills and keeping the wine rack fully and impeccably stocked.

 

But as we already know, today is a rare day. It’s only going to be a simple chicken salad dinner, but it’s Helene’s mum’s chicken recipe and Kate’s renowned potato salad, the recipe for which she insists she cannot share with anyone she doesn’t intend to kill immediately afterwards. It’s Kate’s _I love you_ meal. She hums tunelessly as she seasons the chicken just so before putting it into the slow cooker (the big cupboard at the end, it turns out). Then she chops and mixes the ingredients for the potato salad, and slides the bowl into the fridge, along with a couple of bottles of Australian Riesling.

 

“Tip top, old bean,” she says, smiling down at the dog. “Come on then.”

 

They can strike out in almost any direction from the cottage and give themselves miles of green countryside to walk in. (Cwm Taf is _many_ miles south but she was relieved nonetheless that Jastrok, in his attempts to rouse the Silurians to war, had not ventured into Wales.) Kate strides purposefully, enjoys the stretch in her legs; Somerville is beginning to feel her age when it comes to climbing the stairs at home but she always finds some energy in reserve when she walks like this, with Kate. They have a chat whenever they happen upon something new – “d’you know I think they’ve re-done this stile, Somers? Wasn’t in such good shape last time we came up this way, was it old girl?” – or if they’re nearing a field with any livestock – “don’t even think about any funny business, Somerville” – but mostly they walk in amiable silence. Sometimes Kate worries that she ought to use the peace and quiet to think; worries that she isn’t a deep enough thinker for the landscape she has made a home in the middle of. That’s what people do with endless views and fresh air, isn’t it? But not Kate. Kate’s a doer. Kate is out here walking her dog and cataloguing, in her own unsystematic way, the wild flowers that are scrambling up the drystone walls; sure, she’s thinking, and in making her plans for the evening ahead her mind will wander towards Helene and how much she loves her, but it’s not the stuff of poetry and profundity that she supposes these hills ought to inspire. More _Hallmark_ than Byron, she thinks.

 

Coming back in via the back door, Kate peers into the slow cooker, lifting the lid slightly to release a furl of deliciously fragranced steam. She resists the temptation to prod and poke, glances at the clock, and heads back out the way she came; there’s still time to pot out the courgettes and the strawberries before Len gets home, maybe even weed the beds. She catches herself grinning at the prospect. Keeping the planet safe from alien species is all well and good, but there’s nothing quite like soil under your fingernails on a sunny day.

 

*

 

Helene opens the front door and is immediately hit by the aroma of chicken seasoned just the way her mother always made it. The smell is at once a Proustian rush – home, her sisters, Sunday afternoons – and a greeting from the here and now; when Somerville comes to meet her with tell-tale muddy paws, Len knows for certain that Kate is home.

 

“I’d have changed my plans if I’d known you were bunking off today,” Helene says, walking up behind Kate, who is arguing with an over-ambitious shrub.

 

Kate turns and beams at her wife, pushing her fringe out of her eyes with muddy hands and leaving smudges of soil across her brow. “That’s why I didn’t tell you,” she replies, starting to get up.

 

“Charming.”

 

“You know what I mean,” says Kate, shaking her head. “I don’t want you to plan things around me. Besides, I had a date with a handsome blonde.”

 

“Yes, I met her on my way through. She says she had quite a nice time, but she won’t commit to a second date unless you promise to wipe her paws clean before letting her back into the house, next time,” Helene complains, though she’s betrayed by the smile on her face. 

 

Kate’s head drops. “Oh Len,” she says, her voice full of apology, “I’m sorry – she didn’t get into the studio, did she?”

 

“No, luckily for you, she didn’t. Otherwise it’d take a lot more than wine and dinner to make it up to me.”

 

“Well it’s a good job I bought pudding, too then. Want to do a proper job, don’t I?” Kate quips through a rakish grin, moving closer. “I am sorry, Len. Think you can forgive me?”

 

She leans in for a kiss, but Helene pulls back. “Muddy.”

 

“’S’only a bit of soil,” says Kate softly, wrapping her arms around Len but being careful to keep her hands off the back of Len’s blouse. They both melt into the kiss, enjoying the reunion after another week that had kept Kate in London and without time for more than a goodnight text at the end of each day. “Missed you,” Kate whispers, when they break apart. She leans her forehead against Helene’s and lets her hands relax around Len’s waist. “So much.” Their lips meet again and Kate almost gets away with deepening the kiss, but when she moves a hand up to the back of Len’s neck she breaks the spell.

 

“You’re all muddy,” Len says firmly, brushing earth from her collar. “Go and get cleaned up.”

 

“I thought you liked me dirty,” Kate mutters, stealing one last kiss before turning towards the cottage. “You hungry? We can eat outside if you like?”

 

*

 

This spot in the garden is one of the reasons they had bought the place: nestled in the elbow of the L-shaped building, it is bathed in sunshine late in the afternoon and sheltered from the wind that can nip once the sun went down. In their first summer there, they had strung fairy lights up above the table, zig-zagging from side to side. Kate had teased Helene – grumbling “all about the aesthetic, you” into her wife’s ear as they queued at the till – but it bought them more time on nights such as this, the glowing bulbs biting back the darkness that steals across the countryside to crowd them.

 

They sit astride the bench, Helene’s back to Kate’s front, taking alternate puffs on one of the slender, dark-papered cigarettes that Kate had developed a taste for on lonely stays in Switzerland. They’re not smokers, not really, but they enjoy the quiet intimacy of sharing a smoke on summer evenings. Once, after a particularly expensive trip to the garden centre, Kate had chuckled as she held out the cigarette for Helene to take: “are we turning into the Ladies of Llangollen?” she’d asked. Len had laughed, low and gravelly and with blue smoke curling on her breath, and Kate had felt that fizz, that shock of sensation across her belly – love, happiness, desire. They always keep a pack or two handy in the drawer in the kitchen.

 

Len offers the cigarette back over her shoulder but Kate declines, preferring to move Helene’s hair aside to reveal the back of her neck, which Kate kisses: gently at first and then open mouthed. Len sighs and leans back; disentangles her right hand from Kate’s and reaches behind her to push her fingers into Kate’s hair, nails grazing her scalp. Kate draws her now free hand up Len’s thigh and across her stomach, keeps it there.

 

“I love the feel of your hands on me,” Len had whispered to her once in the dark, as they lay wrapped in each other. “It makes me feel so safe.” Kate had responded by holding her tighter, by rubbing their noses together, by kissing her. She had never particularly identified as butch – loved Helene’s hands on her own curves, arched and mewled under them, gladly gave herself over to Len’s touch – but she was used to the role of protector. What had been new, what she hadn’t been used to, was being with someone who didn’t resent her for it.

 

But now, tonight, on the bench under warm yellow lights in their garden, no one needs protecting. There are a thousand different ways that Kate Lethbridge-Stewart, Chief Scientific Officer, knows this planet may be imperilled, but on the bench in the quiet of north Wales tonight is just Kate. No heritage, no title. Kate. “Kate,” Helene says breathily, turning to kiss her full on the lips, her hands gently clasping Kate’s face. “Kate?” Kate turns her cheek against the palm of Len’s hand and kisses it and hums. There is no need for more words, but Kate presses for them anyway – finds it impossibly sexy to hear the request on Helene’s tongue: “Take me to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've written in the Doctor Who/UNIT fandom so I'm super nervous about this. I hope you like it. Thanks for reading.


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